


F for Friends

by NewWonder



Category: DC Cinematic Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Abusive Joker, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Infidelity, Mild Gore, Mild Sexual Content, One-Sided Relationship, Physical Abuse, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You need a place to stay?" he asked, still foolishly hoping she’d say no.</p><p>"Awww, baby, you are such a gentleman," she cooed, and hopped into his lap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	F for Friends

The cupboard was nearly empty again. Floyd resolved to do the shopping as soon as he was free from work; lately there had been an avalanche of orders, which was nice for his bank account, but left virtually no time for trifles like personal life, shopping, and sometimes showering. Floyd still had enough groceries for pasta, though, but from tomorrow on he’d have to survive on Cheetos unless he managed to buy some actual food.

Still, Floyd would take Cheetos over prison food any time.

Being free felt great. Fucking fantastic, in fact. Floyd’s new apartment was (slightly) bigger than his cell, and a lot brighter. The food only sucked as much as he allowed it to. He could even come and see his daughter almost every week if he was extra careful.

With great freedom, though, came great problems.

Well, one problem. But it was really, really great. Like, huge-ass one.

The doorbell ringed, Floyd swore and went to open the door, wiping his hands on a towel. Wouldn’t want to get tomatoes on his handiest gun if anything happened, after all.

He peered into the peephole. Fuck.

There stood his problem, brightly smiling with bloody teeth. The right half of her face was a single giant blue bruise, startlingly dark against the white of her skin; it made her smile look crooked.

"Hey F, long time no see!" she beamed. "Ya missed me?"

Floyd turned around. The tomatoes needed his company. Harley could deal with her issues on her own.

"C’mon F, I know you’re there!" Harley whined from behind the door. Fuck, she was loud. Floyd could hear her clearly even from the damn kitchen. Shit! She’d alarm the neighbors, and then asta la vista to his new shiny apartment he’d barely moved in. Harley was really, really recognizable, and even if her stupid nickname for Floyd was hard to connect with the infamous Deadshot, anyone with half a brain knew Harley Quinn was only buddies with people you wrote to Batman about.

Floyd stomped to the door, livid. He’d kick her ass so hard it would be redder than a traffic light by the time he was finished with her.

…Okay, that was an image Floyd did not care about. Or so he told himself very firmly, looking through the peephole.

A huge, sky-blue eye blinked at him from the other side. Then the eye receded, and Harley’s trademark grin swam into Floyd’s vision. The girl seemed even paler than usual, but it was probably the lighting.

"Look," she raised her hand with a bottle of amber liquid, "I brought booze! Now let me in, and maybe I’ll give you a shot!"

Floyd sighed explosively, and unlocked the door…

…Just in time to catch Harley, who went limp and fell into his chest, leaving a red lipstick smear on his freshly-washed hoodie.

"Fuck," Floyd evaluated the situation. Harley was damn heavy for such a slight woman. He carried her to the kitchen and seated her at the table, letting her head fall on the tabletop with a thump. She didn’t look seriously injured, just beaten up really badly, physically as well as mentally. In other words, nothing new.

Well, at least he now had the time to finish cooking his pasta. Good thing he made enough for two.

* * *

"Hey dollface, ya gonna tell me the fuck happened to you?" Floyd asked just to be polite. Harley predictably shook her head, pigtails swiping the plate with what little remained of the pasta and the gravy. She was leaning heavily on the desk, head hung low.

"Mmm, you are a total chef F. I swear I could eat your gravy all night long," she licked her lips. Floyd chuckled and wiped off a stray drop on the tip of her nose. She had been eating so ravenously, like she hadn’t had anything in days. Harley was a royal pain in the ass, but he could never stay angry at her, not for long.

"You need a place to stay?" he asked, still foolishly hoping she’d say no.

"Awww, baby, you are such a gentleman," she cooed, and hopped into his lap.

She smelled of old blood and sweat, sex, makeup, whiskey, and pastries — a sweet smell that made his stomach lurch. She seemed weak like a newborn kitten, all limp in his arms, her eyes already drooping dangerously.

Floyd really shouldn’t have done that. He was not charity, and neither was he Harley’s mom.

But, God help him, he carried her to his bed, covered her with a blanket, and fucking tucked her in.

"Thanks F," she mumbled, already half-asleep and sounding so small.

For the umpteenth time, Floyd swore inaudibly and resolved to shoot the Joker’s balls off.

For the umpteenth time, he immediately mentally kicked his own ass and told himself it wasn’t any of his business. He offered food, basic medical help, and a place to stay, and that was all. Besides, Harley probably liked the Joker’s balls right where they were.

Floyd was so fucked. He had a job he loved, the best daughter in the world, he was fucking free from the prison cell… and here he landed himself in the eternal hell called friendzone.

Well, it was more like "friends-with-benefits-zone" in his case, but that didn’t really change anything, not with Harley.

* * *

Harley Quinn was a very sexual creature, her every move and every glance oozing lust, — and she was very, very generous about sharing her affections. She flirted and teased, she hugged, and she kissed (sometimes with tongue).

Her man, naturally, wasn’t too happy about that. Of course, that was totally understandable; Floyd wouldn’t be, too, if he was in his place. But the lengths Joker could sometimes go to… Floyd still felt uneasy about that poor dude Harley apparently liked a bit too much. Floyd and the Joker’s squad just happened to meet one unlucky night on the streets, all of them minding their own business, and Harley, as usual, gave Floyd a nice big kiss on the cheek (good thing Floyd always brought wet wipes with him. He just didn’t care to go around with a red mouth-shaped mark on his cheek, that would be bad news for his professional reputation), and then she started messing around with a young cute newbie in a koala suit while the rest of the henchmen were rigging some warehouse Floyd honestly didn’t care about.

The Joker watched the scene with a look of distaste. Well, he always looked like there was nothing else he would love more than give you a nice stylish Colombian necktie, but that night his regular creepy was also sprinkled with a nice portion of disgust, and kind of even more crazy than usual.

Then the Joker just went up to the koala boy and cut out his heart right through the fucking suit.

"Um," Harley said. She looked somewhat put out.

"Didn’t you just say you wanted to eat him, pumpkin?" the Joker grinned. "You know me girl. Anything for my lady."

And he spread out his hand with the koala boy’s heart. It was still pulsing, thin squirts of blood weakly hitting the Joker’s posh suit. Harley nervously chuckled.

"It was just a figure of speech Puddin’! You know I was joking, I’m on a diet!"

Floyd didn’t even see the Joker moving. A purple-and-green blur, and Harley was lying on the ground sobbing, her lip bleeding from a vicious cut. The Joker must have backhanded her hard, and he did wear some massive rings.

"Har-ley," the Joker sang. "My Harley’s being a bad girl, not listening to her daddy. Naughty, naughty. Daddy’s getting maaaaaaaddd," he laughed. Floyd could have shat himself.

Harley was now crying. "I’m sorry Puddin’," she sobbed, clinging to the Joker’s impeccably pressed pants. "Please don’t be mad."

"Then eat!" he barked, and she started chewing on the heart, blood dripping on the hem of her short silk dress and on her pale bare legs, making the crimson spots of her own blood from the split lip on the fabric even darker.

Floyd politely said goodbye and retreated to the nearest back alley, just in time to puke his guts out all over his shoes in relative privacy.

He kinda suspected the whole show might have been a personal warning for him: he and Harley did get rather cozy since their little adventure of saving the world. But they hadn’t been fucking then, not yet.

* * *

The very first time, the doorbell rang when Floyd was just settling in after his prison break. He got himself a nice place to stay, a bit shabby and ratty but obscure enough to not worry about the Bat too much. He had new clients coming in, and he was plotting to see his daughter for the first time in what felt like far too long. He was eating food, actual food — well, as much as a cheeseburger and fries from McDonalds could be considered "food". Still, compared to the prison swill, it was infinitely more edible, and it tasted fucking heavenly. Floyd was starting to think he’d have to worry about getting out of shape soon enough, but he figured he deserved a short break. (Also healthy organic food cost an arm and a leg, and Floyd was still kinda broke.)

The doorbell kept ringing; it sounded fucking obnoxious. Chewing on a mouthful of fries, Floyd cocked the gun, opened the door, and immediately sprayed the fry cud all over his visitor.

Harley Quinn, the blonde sexy bombshell he had grown to kinda sorta maybe care about during their short stint as world saviors, was leaning against his doorframe, covered in bruises denser than a cheetah’s spots, her lip split and her nose bleeding. It was obvious she had been crying. She was beaming at him now, but her grin was watery, almost the way it looked after the Joker died (not. But no one knew it back then, least of all Harley.)

"Wow, rude," she pouted. "Is that a way to greet your best friend forever?"

"The fuck happened to you, dollface?" Floyd considered lowering the gun, but ultimately decided against it. There was no such thing as being too careful. "…And since when are we best friends?"

"Ooh, don’t say you don’t love me baby, you’re breaking my heart," Harley pressed her cold lips to his cheek and sashayed into the apartment. "Wow, nice place you got there. These your pets?" She picked a particularly fat cockroach off the wall.

"What can I say, desperate times call for shitty-ass places. Fuck! Ew! Don’t do that!"

Harley spit out the cockroach’s head.

"What? I need protein! I kinda fucked up today, you see. Screwed up the job. Made my Puddin’ disappointed with me. I don’t think he wants me home tonight…" Her lips were starting to tremble.

Floyd was silently panicking. Mob bosses, regular shit; superhumans with weird-ass powers, no big deal; crying women, fucking scary. He just didn’t know how to deal with that kinda situation. He needed a rescue, fast.

"Um. I have fries?" he tried, offering her the bucket. "Much more sanitary than cockroaches, you know. Even if they don’t contain as much protein."

"Thanks," she sniffled, and put a bunch into her mouth. "Mmm! You’d better tell me you have more, studmuffin!" She chewed with gusto, and lasciviously licked her dirty, blood-soiled fingers.

Harley, always trying to look happy and carefree, even as her world was breaking apart. Floyd remembered her face as he had told her, back when she’d been sure she’d lost the Joker, "We’re glad you can make it."

She’d said nothing, but it had been clear she disagreed.

He ended up sharing his dinner with her, and when she asked to stay the night, he couldn’t bring himself to say no. He only had one bed, shitty, bumpy, and musty, so they ended up sort of cuddling under a thin stained blanket. He thought he’d stay awake all night, from either alertness or arousal, but with her small frame tucked into his arms, he slept like a baby — for the first time since long before Batman got him.

She was gone the next morning. On the kitchen table, Floyd found a note:

_Thanks for a great night boo, you were incredible xx_

The note was signed with a red lipstick imprint of Harley’s perfect lips. Floyd smiled, folded the note, and threw it into the dumpster.

After several sudden night visits, Floyd just kinda… gave up and started cooking/buying double. He also replenished his emergency kit, because the supplies were running out at an alarming speed.

That time when he had to stitch up a long, nasty, bleeding gash in Harley’s crotch was particularly unforgettable — not least of all because the wound seemed to have been inflicted by human teeth. He was trying to be as gentle as possible, but there really was no way to be "gentle" about this kinda business. Harley thrashed, moaned, and screamed, biting onto his gun holster. She was spread out under him on his bed, Floyd sitting across her legs to keep her from moving too much.

The whole situation was macabre but bizarrely arousing, what with Harley and the proximity of her lean, half-naked pearly-white body, the sounds she made, the intoxicating smell of her body. She was shaven clean, like a baby. He resisted the urge to touch lower, to slip inside her pussy the bloody fingers fresh out of her wound. Fuck, he was hard.

She did not deserve this from him, after all she’d been through tonight.

She did not deserve any of this.

He cut the thread, and slammed his fist against the wall.

"F?" she said, looking at him with tear-stained eyes.

(The nickname was recent, and annoyed the shit out of Floyd.

("Why do you keep calling me that?" he demanded after she screamed the stupid nickname at him for the tenth time.

"Because you’re my F-riend, silly!" she hugged him, and gave him a big kiss on the nose. He didn’t question further after that.)

"Why do you keep coming back to that asshat? Don’t you see, he’s destroying you!" It was hopeless. He’d never get through her thick scull to her Joker-obsessed little brain. But he couldn’t not try. He just couldn’t.

"I love him," she answered simply.

There was full conviction in her voice. There were still tears in her eyes.

"Just remember, I won’t come to weep on your grave," Deadshot said defeatedly.

"Bitch," Harley smiled fondly, and threw her arms around him. Locking him in a hug, she whispered hotly into his ear:

"I know you think I’m sick. But you know what I think is even more sick?"

"What?" Floyd grumbled.

"The fact that you’ve been practically sticking your nose into my cunt for a good ten minutes, and you still haven’t done anything about it."

There was nothing Floyd could say to that, so he chose to respond with actions.

* * *

He eventually swapped his ratty apartment for a nicer one. The night after he moved in, Harley brought him new silk burgundy sheets as a present. Once again, she was in the lovey-dovey phase of her relationship with the Joker, and hickeys adorned her collarbones like a necklace. She kissed Floyd’s cheek and asked, once again:

"You gonna bring your kid here?"

"No," he answered. Again.

It was far too dangerous to bring Zoe here, where anyone could follow him. Where his baby could meet Harley, who had long been very enthusiastic about meeting Floyd’s kid.

He adored Harley, he really did. But people like her just weren’t good company for nice little girls like his Zoe.

He was expecting the usual pout from Harley, but before she could make a face, her phone chirped. She looked at the message, and her face shone. She was generally (manically) happy and cheerful at all times, but sometimes, she’d just light up like someone turned on 100 watt lamps inside her eyes. Floyd knew who that someone was, and what it meant.

She left in a whirlwind of laughter and too-sweet perfume, pressing an obligatory kiss to Floyd’s cheek and not asking any more questions. He washed the new sheets and put them into the closet.

In a week, the burgundy proved very practical as Harley laid spread out on the silk, bleeding from her stomach. Even if the blood stains wouldn’t come out, at least they would be virtually unnoticeable on the dark fabric. Once again, Floyd was convinced that even if Harley looked like a ditz, she sure knew what she was doing.

Each of them knew the dream Enchantress showed the other. The day before his birthday, Harley playfully suggested getting Floyd the Bat’s head as a present. She was lying on his bed, her body glowing like a pearl on dark burgundy sheets. Her body was dotted with fading bruises, yellow and blue thickly staining milky white.

"What about you?" Floyd said. "You still want that house with a dryer and two kids?"

She laughed and kicked up her legs.

"Uh-huh. But the Bat’s head is _way_ easier to get, babe. Hey, do you want a pretty bow on that? I bet pink would sooo suit the Bat’s complexion!"

"I could give you that." Floyd couldn’t believe he was actually saying that. Out loud. With his own mouth. To Harley Quinn, of all women. "You could be my wife if that’s what you wanted. I’d get you a house, with a picket fence and all. And a tough ass dryer. How’s that for a birthday present?"

Harley smiled. Not that slow seductive smile that screamed sex, the one you couldn’t tear your eyes away from. This smile was fond, and so fucking sad Floyd wanted to swear.

"I appreciate the sentiment babe, I really do. But it’s not the dryer I want most, you know?"

He knew, he fucking knew, and he still couldn’t keep his big mouth shut. Harley destroyed everything she touched, and how she had ruined him so utterly, he would never know. He was just honestly surprised Joker still hadn’t hanged him on his own guts yet.

For her birthday, she demanded a new tattoo in addition to those she had done herself in prison. Floyd turned out to be a shit tattooist, but it was fine, she said; after all, he only had to do one letter.

* * *

"Hello friend," the Joker purred. He was sitting on Floyd’s bed, the dark purple of his suit nearly blending in with the burgundy of the sheets. It’s been two weeks since Harley got back together with her Puddin’ again, but the silk still faintly smelled of her skin, and Floyd couldn’t bring himself to change the sheets.

Floyd froze, willed his face to show no signs of his impending heart attack, and calmly responded:

"To what do I owe the honor? Bitch."

"I can smell you on her, you know," the Joker drawled, smiling. His eyes were cold and hard. Floyd’s instincts screamed to run for his life.

"Oh? So whatcha gonna do about it?" As long as he kept the Joker at a distance, he had an advantage. Still, there could be the Joker’s henchmen hiding in the apartment. Thankfully, Floyd was still fully equipped after a freshly-done job.

"Relax F-riend, I’m not going to kill you," the Joker lazily waved his hand. "I don’t like you just as much as you don’t like me, but I do believe my girl has already punished you enough."

"What?.." Okay, so Floyd was tired, thirsty, and kinda tense, and the Joker was being fucking cryptic. Floyd didn’t need none of his bullshit. What he really needed was a fucking drink.

"Love!" Joker dramatically spread out his hands. Floyd arched his eyebrow; this was getting ridiculous. "Such a mighty, vicious, cruel beast. It devours you and spits you out, flesh torn and bones crushed. And you wanted to tame it, poor little F-loyd, and look at you now."

"Listen man, I’m tired and I really want a shower. You got anything sane to say?"

"Did you really think she’d be yours if she said yes?" the Joker laughed like a hyena. "How — pathetic. The Harley you know, the Harley you want, is the Harley I made. I am all of her that you love, stupid little F. She’s fun because I made her fun. She laughs because I taught her to. I took a little, ambitious, incompetent, boring doctor, and I made her into a bomb that makes everyone tick."

"She’s unhappy with you," Floyd said heavily. "She wants a different life, one you can’t give her."

"Psh, who said I can’t?" the Joker smiled, satisfied with the expression on Floyd’s face. "I just don’t want to deal with all the mess after she gets bored with her perfect little life. And my Harley Quinn, my little monster, she _will_ get bored. She’s a bit insane, ya know?" he whispered confidentially. "Sometimes, she still thinks she’s Harleen Quinzel. But you wouldn’t want ol’ boring Dr. Quinzel, F. After all, even Harley didn’t want her."

"What the fuck do you want from me?" Floyd said tiredly. The Joker’s words were nothing new to him, but hearing them out loud still fucking hurt.

"Me? Nothing. I just came for a visit, F," the Joker patted Floyd’s cheek. "And to thank you for taking such good care of my toy."

"Harley," Floyd ground out, "is not a toy."

"Oh, but she is. My best, most dangerous one. And you know the loveliest thing about her? Broken toys remain broken unless you fix them… if you even can, that is. A broken Harley bounces right back. Especially if a certain F-riend is there to… take care of her."

"You are a sick fuck," Floyd hated being unoriginal, but he honestly had nothing else to say.

The Joker laughed and bowed.

"Oh, but I am. You’re so normal compared to me, F. A vaccination — a shot of normalcy, if you will. You work so well when my Harley gets nostalgic about being normal. A couple days with you, and she’s bored out of her mind. She’s always such a good girl when she comes back, did you know? All docile, like a little sheep."

He grabbed a fistful of the sheets and drew a deep breath. His nostrils trembled.

"Still so sweet," he rasped. "Tell me F, how pathetic does it feel to hold on to dirty sheets, because they’re all you’ll ever have of her?"

He left, cackling all the way. Floyd tore the sheets off the bed, crumpled, and threw them into the garbage can.

It’s been two weeks, and they were still crusty with her blood.

* * *

Actually, when you thought about it, it wasn’t all too bad. Rather a win-win, really. Harley got her man, and Floyd got his girl, and the Joker got his laughs, and everybody was mostly happy. A nice, rational scenario.

Of course, nothing about the Joker was rational. And Floyd was just a man crazy in love with his girl.

It was just a question of time which one of them would be the first to kill the other. But Floyd didn’t worry too much about the Joker trying to kill him. After all, he was quite capable of looking after himself.

His only worry was to make sure that when the time came, Harley wouldn’t stand in the way of his bullet.

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, someone sure is optimistic, no?
> 
> Mad props to you if you spotted the reference to a Rammstein song.


End file.
